


Foxglove & Wolfsbane

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Multi, Paganism, Romance, Smut, UST, Werewolves, poly-fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: *AU* Once an Age, the brightest Muggle-born witch is granted an honor—she becomes a prize in the dubiously-titled Foxhunt, where magically selected wizards compete to claim her. That is, if they can survive the event's werewolf-infested forest. And if the prize can survive an outcome the Foxhunt never before produced—being captured by two wizards. (poly-fic)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) AU SETTING
> 
> 2) Inspired by Kittenshift17's Halloween Prompts, Day 23 (any similarities in premise between her new fic Witch Hunting and Foxglove & Wolfsbane are due to said prompt, have been addressed privately, and this story is being written with her encouragement).
> 
> 3) * Orias Mulciber (who appears in a number of my other DE fics) is my take on the canon character of Mulciber.
> 
> FANCAST:  
> Brock O'Hurn as *Orias Mulciber; Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle; Michiel Huisman as Antonin Dolohov; Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.

  

**Chapter One**

Hermione frowned at the missive in her hands, her eyes drifting closed as she shook her head. This was it.

They'd be coming for her.

Crumbling the parchment between her hands, she turned and started for the kitchen to retrieve nibbles for the owl who'd delivered her final grade from the finishing school. It wasn't the bird's fault the bit of seemingly good news it'd just delivered her carried such a weight.

"You brought this on yourself, Hermione, you stupid girl," she said in a whisper as she stepped through the door and continued to the pantry cupboard.

There was nothing to be done for it—she'd read about the ways of the Wizarding World. She knew what became of the Muggle-born witch declared Brightest of the Age. And yet, she couldn't stifle her  _unbearable_  perfectionism. Her constant need to answer correctly, to answer the fastest, to have the answer—and if she didn't, to know what to do to buy herself time to find it—had been her downfall.

And she knew! She remembered clearly thinking,  _If I fail just_ one _test_. That turned into,  _Maybe if I can bring myself to just answer_   _one question wrong._ Which, of course, devolved further, still, when she found herself driven to prove that she knew all the answers, again. Perhaps if she wasn't the first to hand in her exam scrolls.

Until the professor overseeing the final exam had noticed that she wasn't writing, but doodling at the corners of the page in an effort to look like she was still working away.

So many other girls at Beauxbatons wanted to claim the so-called honor such high marks would bring. "Barbaric," the witch muttered with a sigh as she scooped out a few bits of jerky from the jar she kept especially for the feathery messengers and returned to the parlor. The wonderfully obedient creature was waiting patiently for her—or, more precisely, for its reward.

Yet, as she neared it, the bird spooked and out into the brisk night air it fled.

Hermione's shoulders slumped and she darted her gaze about the open window. Only half a heartbeat passed before she realized that she'd done nothing to alarm the owl. If it had fled so—

As she spun to face the intruder, everything went dark.

* * *

She became aware of an inconsistent buzzing in her ears, first.

Giving herself a small, subtle shake, she tried to open her eyes, but a soft weight pressed against her eyelids. God, she was blindfolded! She already knew trying to move would not work—not yet, not until they let her. Her wrists were pinned together before her by way of a sticking charm, as were her feet to the ground.

Swallowing hard, she turned her head, trying to listen for the buzzing. At that motion, the sounds ceased, and she realized what they must be.  _Conversation_.

Obviously, her signal that she was conscious— _clearly_  after having been rendered otherwise by a charm—had silenced them. She tried not to let the sudden quiet send a chill up her spine, but the very air around her felt like it was holding its breath.

She flinched back a bit at the sound of footfalls drawing close to her.

"Shh, shh, you're safe."

Though she didn't quite believe the soothing voice cooing to her, she stilled. She thought she could feel the beat of her heart rattling her rib cage as another footfall sounded, and then she became distinctly aware of someone standing before her.

A gentle finger slipped beneath the blindfold and slid it up, pulling the silken band off over the top of her head. Immediately she winced against the wash of intermittent illumination dancing against the backs of her closed eyelids.  _Firelight_. She supposed that made sense.

"It's all right, my dear. You can open your eyes."

"Dispel the sticking charms, first," she said, her voice level, perfectly calm despite the nervous churning in the pit of her stomach. Yes, yes, the wizards who participated in this so-called event were selected by Magic, itself, but that didn't guarantee they wouldn't be utter toads.

When her demand was met with hesitation, she added on, "It's hardly as though I've got anywhere else to go. I know what becomes of witches who try to escape the Foxhunt." Shunned they were—no longer welcome in the Wizarding world, they lived on the outskirts of Muggle society, like the crone-hags in old fairy stories.

"Of course you would know, wouldn't you? You are certainly the prize Beauxbatons promised you to be."

The sticking charm fell away, then, but she was still reluctant. Biting hard into the inside of her lower lip, Hermione opened her eyes. She just barely kept a gasp from tearing out of her. Four tall, cloaked figures stood before her, their faces covered by ornate silver masks.

_Death Eaters_.

Sacred Twenty-Eight wizards? This certainly was rare . . . . For  _all_  of her pursuers to hail from the oldest, noblest of the pure-blood lines was unprecedented in recent history. Typically, one or two might be purest-of-the-pure, from her research into the Foxhunts, but all four?

Brow furrowing, she looked to each of them, in turn, amid the circle of standing torches. "I don't understand."

"Perhaps we should remove our masks," one of them said. "This  _is_  an unusual circumstance, the Fox  _does_  deserve to know her Hunters."

The two tallest went first, revealing breathtaking blue eyes on each of them. She knew they were of separate lineages—they had to be, the Magic did not allow members of the same family to participate in the same Foxhunt—but they could pass for brothers. Each had long, tumbling dark-gold hair, strong Nordic features and beards gracing their chiseled jawlines.

It took everything in her not to let her eyes widen or her jaw drop as she looked them over. Her features carefully schooled, she turned her attention on the other two, pretending her pulse hadn't quickened as she'd met the eyes of both of those near-Vikings before looking away.

The blond wizards were both mountainous figures, and she could see it from the corner of her eye as the taller of the two leaned toward the other and murmured something to him. She couldn't quite hear what he said, but she could swear she read the movement of his lips.  _We made her blush with a_ look. _Interesting._

She pretended not to have caught that. For some reason, she was certain it would only cause her to blush more furiously, and she'd not even been aware she  _was_ blushing before that.

The other two wizards followed suit, removing their masks. The first was a man with lush, wavy dark hair and intense eyes such a deep brown, they were nearly black. And the final one—the only one not sporting facial hair, in fact—had a head of sleek, silvery-blond hair and icy grey eyes.

This last one, she recognized.

"Lucius Malfoy?"

With the tiniest hint of a grin curving one side of his mouth, he bowed his head. "You're one of the girls Narcissa taught before she passed, hmm?"

Her brows pinching together, Hermione nodded. She'd loved Professor Narcissa Malfoy's lessons—the witch was stern, and took no guff, a bit like Professor McGonagall, but more uptight. That she expected the very best from her students in even the smallest thing was how the girl imagined she might be if she ever became a teacher.

When Narcissa had contracted Dragon Pox, Hermione felt a bit of a void, knowing the poor woman would not have long. But she'd kept teaching up 'til she absolutely could not, anymore.

"I am sorry for you loss, Sir."

His almost-smiling expression warmed a little, but not much. "Such condolences are unnecessary, it has been a few years. Clearly the Magic has decided it time I consider remarrying, or I would not be here."

She nodded, giving him a once-over. He certainly was fit for his age. His skin was smooth, and he barely looked as though he had the beginnings of crows feet; it was jarring to consider he was a widower, or that he had a son her age.

Honestly, she hated to be superficial about the matter—after all, whoever caught her would claim her for  _life_ , that was a weighty thing, indeed—but she could not help that for a moment she  _really_ appreciated the way the Foxhunt's Magic worked. All four were quite something to look at.

But that was enough of the pleasantries. She knew this was not going to be a happy, shiny experience. She hadn't looked to the area beyond her suitors standing with her in the ring of torchlight for precisely that reason.

"Hermione Granger," Lucius Malfoy said, and she knew he'd been the one speaking to her while she'd been blindfolded. "Welcome to the Foxhunt. As our quarry, you wear an amulet that will signal each of us when you have been captured and the Hunt comes to a close."

Her brows shooting up, she patted a hand against her throat. Sure enough, she found herself fitted with a choker, a smooth stone set into intricately-molded gold . . . or perhaps it was silver.

"Hunters, present yourselves to our Fox."

The taller of the two Vikings stepped forward. Though he lowered in a sweeping bow, he kept his face tilted up, those vibrant blue eyes of his fixed on hers. "Orias of House Mulciber."

She nodded in acknowledgement, swallowing hard as he straightened to his full—markedly impressive—height and stepped back. His voice was a gorgeous deep timbre that she was  _rather_  sure she could stand to hear more of.

The other Viking stepped up, next. His bow was not as sweeping, something in the movement made her think he might be expecting her to run up and kick him in the shins. Despite the guarded gesture, she detected a note of humor in his voice as he said, "Thorfinn of House Rowle."

He must be the sort who was always at least a little amused at everything, she thought. She nodded to him.

The dark-haired one followed. He did not bow—not until Lucius not-so-subtly jabbed an elbow into his ribs. One brow arching, he lowered for the briefest moment. "Antonin of House Dolohov."

Her posture stiffened a little at his family name. Dolohov was _not_  a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, so how, then, was this man a Death Eater?

"Oh, I think she's on to you," the giant of a wizard—Orias—said, to Thorfinn's barely shielded snickering.

Antonin sneered at that. She was a bloody Muggle-born, who was  _she_  to question his right to stand among his fellow Death Eaters? But he might be the one to catch her, and he could not have this off to such a rough start.

"My mother is of House Shafiq."

_That_ was a name she recognized from her research. Only when this Antonin visibly settled his irritation with the matter, did she nod in acknowledgement of him.

"And of course, you know I am Lucius of House Malfoy," the silver-haired man said with a bow that was just as sweeping as Orias' had been.

Remembering there was something she'd wanted to ask before she was sent off, she quickly nodded and waited for him to back up into line with the other three. As Lucius opened his mouth to move the event along, she held up a hand.

"I must know, why is this Foxhunt special?" Inhaling deep and holding it a moment, she let the breath out slow before elaborating. "How is it that my Hunters are  _all_ Death Eaters?"

Lucius nodded—of course if her reputation held, he should have expected her to ask. "You are the Brightest Witch of the Age."

Her shoulders slumped, feeling underwhelmed with his response. "No.  _Every_  Fox is the Muggle-born who proves herself brightest of her . . . . Wait." Her brow furrowed as she played his exact words over in her head. She could just feel Lucius' brows slowly climbing his forehead as he, indeed,  _waited_  for her to comprehend the situation. "You didn't say Muggle-born."

"No, I did not." Again, he nodded. "You are _the_  Brightest Witch of this Age."

Hermione's chestnut eyes widened as that sank in. The brightest witch among both Muggle-borns  _and_ pure-bloods? That explained the rarity of this, she was sure. That was probably why the last time this had happened had not been in  _recent_ history.

"Now, I'm afraid we have delayed long enough. You have a one hour head start. As you evade your Hunters, so too, must your prove your wit and tenacity by evading the creatures who reside within these woods."

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she nodded. That was something she'd deliberately avoided thinking about—the creatures in these woods. It wouldn't matter which of these wizards found her first, if a werewolf happened upon her sooner.

She bit hard into her bottom lip as she looked out into the Dark Forest. And her, without her wand. The final step in proving she was worthy of the honor of comingling her blood with that of a noble House.

Lucius leaned close, his face nearly in hers as he said the words that would start the Hunt. "And so the Fox runs."

Turning on her heel, Hermione wasted no time bolting into the tree line.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"May the best man win," Thorfinn said with a nod.

"Thank you for your endorsement." Orias grinned wide, looking as though he was stopping just short of puffing out his chest.

Shaking his head, Thorfinn snickered. He was nothing if not a fan of a humorous turn-arounds. "Gave you that one easy, didn't I?"

"Yes, and I suspect you'll give me her easily, too."

A smirk curving his lips, the slightly shorter wizard nodded, this time. "Oy, keep that up and I'm just not going to talk to you, anymore."

Orias snorted a chuckle. "Spoilsport."

Antonin, who'd been watching the pair in silence rolled his eyes. Honestly, they were about to go stomping through werewolf territory in the dark of night to hunt a witch who, despite her seeming pragmatic grasp of the situation, probably wanted nothing to do with any of them. One would think they could be a little more serious, just now.

"Now, now, Dolohov," Lucius said in a quiet tone, so the two younger wizards would not overhear. "Attitude like that nearly guarantees one of them will find her."

Arching a brow, the dark haired man turned his attention to his  _sort-of_  friend. "How so?"

Lucius pursed his lips in thought as he adjusted his black leather gloves. "Rumor has it that the magic which weaves the Foxhunt into existence has ways of favoring those who actually _want_  to participate."

"Funny," Antonin said with a shrug, "you don't seem overly eager to be here, yourself."

With a glance out toward the Dark Forest, Lucius sighed. "To be perfectly frank, despite the magic deeming me ready, I am not so certain I am in a fit state to remarry, just yet. Let alone the hell Draco would give me for taking a bride who's barely a year older than him—ancient, compulsory, magical ritual, or not."

A small smile curved Antonin's lips as he dropped his gaze to his feet. He gave a quick nod. "And so the prestige which comes with claiming the Fox makes no difference to you, hmm?"

"Oh, I wouldn't go as far as to say _that._ Make no mistake, I will be giving this my all." Lucius smirked, just the faintest twitching of one corner of his mouth. "And after meeting her, she certainly is something, isn't she?"

Unable to stifle a chuckle at that, Antonin said, "Oh, yes, I don't think it went unnoticed by any of us how delighted you were to  _bind_ her with that sticking charm. Not to mention how . . . taken you seemed with her when she was conscious and stood up to you while so bound, unless I was misreading your reaction, which we both know I was not."

Lucius' brows crept upward a hair's breadth as he said, "We all have our eccentricities."

Just then, a flare erupted into the night sky from one of the torches.

Turning his attention to the bright flash behind them, Lucius nodded. "And so it begins. Best of luck to us, all. Happy Halloween hunting, gentlemen!"

* * *

Hermione saw the explosion of light against the night sky from her hiding spot. She'd felt secure. She'd felt as though the place she'd found was good—a rocky alcove, almost entirely hidden by foliage.

Yet, as she watched the flare dwindle and sputter out in its fall back to earth, she could not help but feel like it simply wasn't good  _enough_.

Not for this. Not for hiding from those four wizards, while hoping none of the werewolves picked up her scent. It wasn't going to be the wisest decision, but something in her gut told her to move. To move and keep going, and that required going out into the open.

Swallowing hard, she scanned the horizon. She strained to listen to the nocturnal sounds of the forest. Hermione didn't know much about wilderness survival, not first-hand, anyway, but she knew what to listen for—she knew the natural sounds dropped away when the animals sensed something dangerous.

And just now, she could hear noises. The rustling of things moving in the underbrush, the cries of a distant bird of prey's next meal, things scuttling along tree branches, and, of course, the constant dusk-light companion—crickets chirping. Whoever thought a forest was quiet at night had clearly never been in one at the right time.

She spied a break in the tree line, a small gap that she could slip through, but her pursuers, with their heart-stoppingly larger builds might overlook it were they to pass by.

That she could not know what awaited on the other side of that break did worry her, but that concern was all but drowned out by the frantic little instinct-fueled voice in the back of her head.  _Go, go, go!_

Shaking her head at herself, the witch steeled her nerves and took off for that break as fast as she could. She didn't bother looking back, she didn't look on either side of her—she might see something that distracted her, forcing her to stumble.

Hermione thought she could hear footfalls in the distance as she ran.  _Don't look,_ don't, _just run!_  Even as she moved, listening to the frantic urging of that instinctive whisper, she wondered why she was bothering. The outcome of this night was inevitable—aside from possibly getting eaten by a werewolf—whoever found her would become her husband.

There didn't seem much point in running, in hiding. It would change nothing. She should just sit down and let one of her Hunters happen upon her. Well . . . again, except for the werewolves.

And that wizard from House Dolohov. Something about him. She shook her head as she ran. She had a feeling that if he found her, one of them wouldn't make it out of their wedding night alive.

Wincing reflexively, she ducked her head as she slipped through the gap in the trees. The moment she stepped through, she darted to one side and backpedaled, pressing to the nearest trunk as she caught her breath.

She looked around as the air rattled about in her lungs. Another expanse of dense foliage awaited her.

Tipping her head side to side, she considered there were plenty of places to hide in there . . . . Though it would likely put her closer to the more dangerous things lurking in these wilds.

Once her breathing had steadied, she took off for the thicket before her.

And then . . . she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she became aware of the void of sounds.  _Silence_. A sudden and inexplicable nothingness, that was exactly the thing she'd hoped not to hear.

She couldn't know what direction held the danger, so she tried to halt as she entered the thicker part of the woods, here. Tried to dig her heels in, mid-stride, and move backward a few paces.

But the immediate clamp of fingers around her elbow dragged her further into the dense stand of trees, instead.

Hermione tried to pull out of the grasp, but she froze when her brain threw two important, glaring facts at her. One, the stone in her ritual choker had not reacted to her seeming capture. Two . . . she thought she could feel the tips of claws poking at her skin through the sleeve of her dress.

She couldn't put up much of a fight, but she would not give in easily, either.

Balling her free hand into a fist, she turned toward the person tugging her along.

Clearly expecting her action, the werewolf halted. He pivoted to face her, catching her angry little fist in his palm. Closing his fingers around hers, he looked from their hands up to her face.

She swallowed hard, uncertain she should be surprised by the intelligent amber eyes staring back at her. Really, she'd only ever read about werewolves, and so she was expecting to find herself in the clutches of some horrible man-beast. Not . . . not  _this_. Tall, broad-shouldered, chiseled features, jet hair laced through with striking ribbons of white.

There was a strangely becoming villainous arch to his brows that made the half-grin he granted her take on a wicked tone.

"Now, now," he said in a gruff voice, "you nearly look as though you think I'm going to eat you."

"You . . . ." She had to gather up her courage before trying again—she was too scared and too, well, whatever else the look of him made her feel that certainly  _wasn't_  fear, to speak for a moment. "You're a werewolf, though, aren't you?"

He arched a brow, that wicked half-grin widening a bit. "Aye."

"But you're  _not_  going to eat me?"

"Well, I never said that." He chuckled at the way her eyes shot wide, but kept his grip on her hand and her elbow firm as he tacked on, "Only, you and I are probably thinking of that in two very different ways."

Hermione felt herself flush as his meaning sank in. "Oh." However meeting a werewolf for the first time was supposed to go, she never imagined  _this_ would be it.

"But I understand you're pressed for time, aren't you, little Fox?"

Her shoulders drooped. "So the wolves of the Dark Forest do know about the Foxhunt?" She was always under the impression the werewolves were deliberately kept out of the loop to up their ferocity at the surprise of having the Fox and her Hunters invade their territory.

"What my elders have told the pack, yes." He bit his bottom lip, waiting for her to drop her gaze to his mouth before he went on. "I suppose I could always drag you away from this stupid ritual. I certainly would love to  _devour_  you in front of my entire pack, so they know you're mine."

She could feel a rush of warmth through her limbs at the suggestion. Creatures like him really had no shame, did they?

Forcing a gulp down her throat, shook her head at him. She could hardly believe there was even a tiny part of her that wanted to tell him  _yes_. "Look, whoever you are—"

"Fenrir Greyback," he said with a wink, a growl edging his voice.

"Fenrir . . . . As, well, I don't even know, as your suggestion sounds—"

"You don't need to pretend with me, Fox. It's in your scent that you like the way I think."

Her eyes widened, once more, and her jaw dropped. After a moment, she collected herself enough to speak. "My name is Hermione, thank you very much! And stop cutting me off! No matter what I think of your . . . offer, you can't be serious. Removing me from the Hunt would cause problems between my kind and yours."

He used his hands on her to tug her closer, snickering when she didn't seem to object. "So, then I suppose tucking you away somewhere until sunrise to keep you as my own wouldn't fly too well, either?"

She didn't know how it was that she was suddenly so near to him that she could feel the warmth of his skin through his tattered clothes. "I'm . . . I'm afraid not. One of my Hunters has to find me. As the hours wear on, the magic will favor the one who wants it the most. And if that one finds you and I together in some . . . inappropriate tangle of limbs, it would be just as bad."

Fenrir let out a throaty chuckle at her choice of words. "So, no matter what happens, you're stuck with one of them?"

The witch nodded.

Relinquishing his hold on her fist, he stroked his beard in thought. "Then . . . is there one you would prefer find you?"

"What?" Despite the question, her mind immediately flashed back upon the pair of massive blond wizards.

"You have to be found by one of them, right? So, is there one who you would prefer to emerge the victor in this?"

"Well . . . ."

Again, the werewolf laughed. "So there  _is_ one. I'll tell you what. I'll conveniently plop you in his path . . . for a price."

She dropped her gaze to her feet, shuffling awkwardly in place for a moment. Those Vikings . . . she couldn't think of one she favored over they other. They were both just so . . . so . . .  _lovely_ , actually. "Honestly? There's two of them I just don't know how to choose between, and I've nothing to give in payment."

"Oh. Two of them? And that  _is_  how it works, whoever catches you, you have to wed, yeah?"

Hermione nodded.

"I think we can do something about that."

She snapped her head up to meet his gaze. "I'm not sure I understand." Though, being interjected into the path of one of the men she'd rather have find her was certainly preferable to waiting around to be found by that dark-haired man with the poor temperament, or to be torn limb-from-limb by some other werewolf. Well, perhaps being found by Lucius Malfoy wouldn't be awful, but . . . .

"As for payment, I meant . . . a kiss."

Her brows shot up. "Oh. Is that all?"

" _All_?" He echoed, tugging her closer, still. "Clearly you've never kissed a werewolf."

Staring up into his amber eyes, she felt a wash of heat through her body. Even before she finished shaking her head, his mouth was on hers.

Hermione forgot to breathe, entirely, as he plunged his tongue between her lips. She couldn't seem to think around a sudden need to get closer to him than she already was. Caressing his tongue with her own, stood on her toes as she slipped her arms around his neck.

After a few heated, utterly mindless moments, he broke the kiss. Raking his teeth across her bottom lip, he pulled back to meet her gaze, once more.

"Do . . . do werewolves  _always_  kiss like that?"

His breathing just a little heavy, he nodded. "Now, let's get you in that path of those wizards before you start rethinking my suggestion."

"Wait a moment, I—" She cut herself off with a shriek as Fenrir lifted her into the air, as though she weighed nothing at all, and deposited her over his shoulder.

He was off and running through the woods. "Tell me what I'm looking for."

"Fenrir, you put me down right this—"

"Oh, were I you, little fox, I would not threaten me. You're in a very vulnerable position, you know."

Though, she was tempted to push him and see just how he'd take advantage, she knew that would only lead to trouble. Closing her eyes, and trying hard to get her bearings, despite how being carried like this jostled her, she described the two suitors. He was going to get her to whichever of them was closer, she guessed.

As he moved, she started to hear sounds she did not like, at all. Distant growls, deep, rumbling animal noises that seemed to fade in and out of her ears. There was even a howl, or two.

"Oh, dear," he said as he moved. "Seems the pack has caught the scents of your Hunters."

"God, no." She might not be happy with this rite, but she didn't want any of them to die for it—they had no more choice in this than she did!

"Sooner I get you to where we're going, the better, than, hmm?" He was scanning and listening as he darted through the trees. If he could time this just right . . . .

After a few minutes of running in silence, she bit her lip to hold in a yelp at the jarring way he halted on a dime.

"Here we are."

Before she could register his words, he lifted her off his shoulder and set her in a sitting position on the forest floor. He tapped a fingertip against the tip of her nose. "You stay here, and any moment now, you'll be on your way out of here."

"Thank—thank you," she said, swallowing hard as she nodded. "Goodbye, Fenrir."

He held her gaze as he backpedaled, holding up his hands. "Oh, this isn't goodbye."

Her brows drew upward as she watched him. "It's not?"

"The Fox and the Wolf  _will_  meet again." He gave a flirtatious wink, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the trees.

She chewed at her lower lip in thought. Why did that phrase have a familiar ring to it?

There was little time to ponder that as she heard the rush of heavy footfalls stomping the ground in her direction. Though . . . she couldn't tell if they were coming from her right, or her left.

* * *

Thorfinn and Orias spotted each other from meters away. Their quarry, looking rather confused, sat right there before a tree. Her dark eyes were enormous as she turned her head, glancing from one wizard to the other, and back.

Neither slowed their steps, despite how tired they already were from avoiding the werewolves—sometimes so close they thought they could feel ragged breath on the backs of their necks. Instead, they each picked up their pace.

Thorfinn pushed himself to run harder, still, to account for Orias'  _slightly_ longer stride. Orias noted the younger wizard's determined sprinting, and tried to push himself harder, as well.

Hermione didn't know which way to look, they were both making a bee-line for her. But she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

When she looked straight ahead, she saw the unhappy face of the dark-haired wizard coming toward her.  _Oh, no._ Just her luck, Fenrir had plopped her down in front of a tree, she had nowhere to back up.

Antonin noticed the other two drawing closer to her. He grimaced, hating that he had to put in his all for this, and picked up his pace, as well.

Wincing, she shut her eyes tight. In a subtle movement, she raised her arms ever so slightly from where they had hung limp at her sides. Just a little . . . just enough that if one of them reached her at the same time as Dolohov, they'd still grab hold of her before  _he_  could.

To her shock, she felt both of her hands clasped at the same time.

Both of the blond wizards dropped to their knees beside her as they caught their breath. A sparkling flash of light zipped out of the stone in her choker, hovering before them for a split-second. The burst of illumination shot up into the sky, like a flare, signaling the end of the Hunt.

But it was only when an angry sound tore out of Antonin as he halted that they truly noticed what had happened.

"What?" Orias said, frowning as he shook his head.

Thorfinn echoed the question as he looked from his hand around hers, to Mulciber's hand around her other.

She looked as bewildered as they did, darting her helpless gaze from one, to the other, and back. Antonin was shaking his head in silence as he tried to understand what had just happened.

No one noticed Lucius Malfoy strolling up from within the thicket of trees behind them. "Huh," the silver-haired wizard said, his brows high on his forehead. "Two Hunters emerge victorious?"

Both Orias and Thorfinn opened their mouths to argue . . . but neither had the foggiest idea what to say.

Lucius, confused—and so few things confused him—gave a tight-lipped grin as he nodded. "Well, _this_  is new."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> I picture this version of Pansy like Margo from The Magicians, in personality, not appearance. As gorgeous as Margo is, I still love me some Scarlett Byrne.

 

**Chapter Three**

The Fox and her Hunters all stood before the grand desk of the Minister of Magic. Each of them wore a confused expression as they watched the elder witch, awaiting her verdict. Minister Minerva McGonagall appeared equally perplexed as she read over the ancient proclamations outlining the terms of the Foxhunt.

Uttering a weighted sigh, she set down the scrolls and looked up at the small assembly. "Due to the tenuously specified nature of the Magic which governs the Hunt, this . . . highly unusual circumstance will proceed in accordance with that of a successfully concluded Foxhunt. Therefore, the necessary arrangements will be made shortly, with a few minor—typically unheard of—adjustments to make, of course."

Hermione shook her head, pressing her fingertips against her temples as she let the Minister's words sink in. She knew this woman—Minerva McGonagall had served as Headmistress of Beauxbatons before being elected to this post. The younger witch trusted her judgment . . . or rather, had, until this very moment. Now, she was certain the woman had gone 'round the bend.

"You're joking! I have to marry _both_  of them?"

Orias tacked on just as fast, "You're joking! You expect  _me_ to share?"

Thorfinn's only contribution to the collective outburst was to let out a scoffing breath and shake his head.

At the sound, the Minister looked toward the slightly shorter of the two Viking wizards. "No bellyaching from you about this, young Lord Rowle?"

Thorfinn granted her a pointedly exhausted look. "Would it make any difference?"

"It would not."

He shrugged, a sagely, if mirthless, grin curving his lips.

"Very well. Lord Malfoy? Lord Dolohov? Have you any objections to the outcome of your Hunt?"

Lucius frowned in thought, but shook his head. Antonin scowled, remaining silent as he stared back at the old woman.

Minerva arched a suspicious brow at the dark-haired wizard's reticence. "Lord Dolohov?"

"You ask as though it would actually matter," he answered, his tone sour. "According to your own words, you will do nothing to overturn this madness."

"The Magic deems what it deems, and it is not our place to question its will, you know that."

"Then why even bother to ask if we object?" He was speaking through lightly clenched teeth, now. "Never mind, My Lady. I believe we're done here."

Antonin cast a quick glance toward the younger woman and her soon-to-be husbands. "I'll find some other way to deal with this . . . gross injustice, myself," he said, all but spitting out his words.

With that, he stormed from the Minister's office. No one was terribly surprised when he slammed the door shut in his wake.

"Well . . . ." Thorfinn's brows drew upward as he clasped his hands before him. "I guess that's one person who won't be invited to the wedding."

When he turned back to face his future bride and her . . . other groom, he gave a little start at the glares they were shooting him. "What? Everyone loves weddings," he said in a forced jovial tone. He held up his hands in a mock cheer. "Yay, weddings!"

Orias' angry stare melted into a bored frown. "I swear, I'm going to kill him."

Though she'd only just met him, Hermione could already feel that she was mirroring his expression, just based on his tone. "Not if I do it, first."

Lucius had backed up to lean against a corner of the Minister's desk, his arms folded across his chest. As he watched a strange argument break out between the three of them—he wasn't even certain if they were all angry or trying to hold back laughter, as each of them seemed on the verge of both at any given moment—he considered how lucky he was to not have the 'honor' of winning the Hunt.

* * *

Fenrir was in a surprisingly good mood the following morning. He sat on the forest floor, his back against the trunk of a large, ancient tree. His eyes closed in a peaceful expression, he had his hands clasped behind his head.

He knew the scent that neared him even before he heard the delicate, barely audible crunch of her steps through the grass.

"What's with you?"

Cracking open one eye, he tilted his head, meeting Lavender's inquisitive—if bored—gaze. "What'd you mean? I've not said a word."

His pup laughed, shrugging. "Ah, yeah. That'd be my point, oh fearsome alpha. You're usually tearing about the caverns at this time of morning, having a go at anyone who's wasting our sleeping hours."

"I'm 'bout to start a nice round of that here and now, Lav. Why aren't you sleeping right now?"

The young woman glanced back toward the mouth of the cave. "I was trying to, but then Luna and Remus elected me to come out and see where you were. The quiet was making everyone worried something happened to you last night."

He chuckled so hard at that his shoulders shook. "Something happen to  _me_? Like what, exactly?"

"Oh, c'mon," she said, frowning as she combed her fingers through her long, blond hair in a gesture of utter disinterest. "We all know you _hate_  wizards. They're no match for us one on one, of course, but you're brazen—hear: stupid—enough to try and take on a gaggle of them all on your own."

"Did you just say 'gaggle?'"

"Oh, shut up." She shook her head. "Look, they were worried, not me. I still hate the sight of you,  _but_ here we are."

"Well," he couldn't help another chuckle as he spoke, "hatred, really?"

"Don't act like it's a surprise. It's the unfortunate side effect of the person who's trying to kill you accidentally turning you simply because he didn't bite down hard enough." Rolling her eyes skyward in thought, she sighed and hunkered down before him to sit on her heels. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I'm just . . . feeling good, is all. Happy, I suppose is the closest word for it."

A wary look overtaking her features, she watched as he nodded and let that one eye close, again. Nodding, she stood up and backpedaled.

"A' right, then," she said, keeping an eye on him as she started back to the caverns.

* * *

"Happy?" Remus echoed, though he was careful to keep his voice down so their conversation would not wake the others. None of them wanted their little pack to be responsible for a lousy hunt due to interrupted sleep later. "Fenrir doesn't get happy. He doesn't even know the meaning of the word!"

"I know, I know." Lavender agreed nodding. "I thought it was odd, too. However . . . ."

Luna arched a brow, her light musical voice chiming into the conversation and doing exactly as their reluctant beta had done a moment ago by repeating Lavender. "However?"

"I think . . . I think I smelled a female on him. Not a werewolf, either."

Remus' face fell in shock. "A non-werewolf female? You think he encountered the wizards' precious Fox?"

"It's possible. I hadn't thought about it before, but what other woman besides her, or one of us, could he have run across in the forest last night? And if it didn't smell like one of us, _then_  . . . ?"

Remus and Luna exchanged a glance at that, even as they were all aware their elders would frown on their gossiping. Even more would they frown on idle chatter about the Fox and the Wolf.

"Interesting," they said in the same breath.

* * *

"Two wizards," Ginny said again, shaking her head as Pansy fluttered about her and Hermione while they dragged her to the bridal boutique. "Unbelievable."

"No, it's not . . . well, I suppose it is. But the wedding night is going to kill me," the bride-to-be answered as they ushered her inside. Pans all but tore the scroll from Minister McGonagall out of the other girl's hands and held it out to the proprietor.

Upon opening it, the elder witch immediately jumped from her seat behind the counter. She rounded the glass display and led them to the back of the shop. "Here we are. As your generation's Fox, you are welcome to select any dress that strikes your fancy!"

Hermione's brow furrowed. She had always understood the fuss made about the Hunts, but she had no idea there were _this_  big. "Any dress?"

"Mm-hmm." The proprietor smiled broadly as she nodded. "All costs covered by the Ministry of Magic, my dear. Shout if you need assistance."

Pansy emitted a sound that made Hermione think she was about to burst into about a thousand tiny, gibbering Pansies as the shopkeeper went back behind the counter. "Will you stop living vicariously through me for five minutes, please?"

At that, the dark-haired witch's petite shoulders slumped. "I will the next time I have a friend who's marrying two giant, muscly blond wizards."

Ginny frowned, waving the other witch off toward the selection of dresses. After Hermione took a breath, the redhead turned to face her. "So, I walked in at the end of what you were telling Pans earlier. What  _exactly_  is the arrangement?"

"You just heard me say the wedding night is going to kill me?"

"Your wedding night has to be with both of them, like . . . at the same time?"

Wincing, Hermione nodded. "'Course, I'm going to have to get creative on that one, I've never been a big fan of . . . shall we say backdoor entry."

Ginny slapped her hand across her mouth, stifling a laugh. "I'd say too much information, but I remember the stories from when you dated Krum. Okay, so the honeymoon is the three of you being sent off together?"

Pivoting on her heel to watch Pansy picking about ten different hangers at once, Hermione sighed. "Yes. Two weeks. Two weeks that I'll be essentially trapped in some resplendent honeymoon suite with those two."

"From your tone, I can tell you consider that notion torture. Hate to break it to you, but if you're ever _actually_  tortured, you're in for a nasty surprise."

Hermione snickered at herself, shaking her head. "Okay, so perhaps I  _am_  overreacting. I'm only thinking of the downsides. I can barely handle a relationship with one man, now I'm stuck with two? But . . . maybe you and Pansy are right—"

"I'm always right," the other witch called from across the shop floor.

Ginny and Hermione both feigned a frown at that. "Anyway," Hermione continued, "I suppose I could try looking on the bright side of things. I mean, they are both . . . both . . . . Wow, the two of them are just amazing to look at on their own, you know? And I'm going to have  _both_  of them. That's a little, um, well, it's enough to make a witch's head explode."

"But in a good way," Pansy said in a tsk'ing tone as she came back to the other two young women, her arms loaded down with bundles of white silk and satin.

Hermione arched a brow as she started combing through the pile to see just what her friend thought was a good idea to wear on the occasion of marrying two modern day Vikings.

"Okay." Ginny folded her arms under her breasts, nodding. "But what about  _after_  the honeymoon?"

Pansy answered, in sing-song notes this time. "Worst question in the history of time."

"No, no, it's an expected question." Finding one she liked—and of which Pansy clearly approved, two things which rarely meshed—Hermione pulled the dress from the pile and turned her head, looking for the changing room. "And well, this is the first time they've had to deal with this sort of situation, so Minister McGonagall is trying to be as reasonable as she can about the unique circumstances."

"Which means?"

"We're sort of going to be trading off time." She shrugged, aware how odd this probably sounded. "One week with Thorfinn, one week with Orias. Holidays all of us together, that sort of thing."

"Wha . . . ? What sort of weirdo rubbish is that?" Shaking her head, Ginny scowled. "It's like you're a living timeshare!"

"But think of the upsides," Pansy quipped, her perfect brows shooting up her forehead.

Ginny spread her hands in question."I didn't realize there  _was_  an upside to a mess of this magnitude."

"Oh, c'mon. One week with one, next week with the other?" Pansy looked between the two witches before going on. "Think about it. They'll both be climbing all over themselves trying to outdo each other."

When Hermione looked like she didn't quite want to think on what that could mean, Pansy leaned closer and gave her a meaningful once-over. "And I don't just mean lavishing you in presents, you leggy little bitch."

Hermione's brows lifted as a blush flared in her cheeks even as she tried to avoid picturing Orias Mulciber and Thorfinn Rowle trying to one up each other in her bed. "Oh, well, now . . . ." Toss Fenrir Greyback's promise that they'd see each other again—along with those steamy _werewolf kisses_  of his—into the mix, and it was a wonder her face didn't catch fire.

Smirking, Pansy started for the shoes. "Told you, upsides."


End file.
